


use the shame and the scars

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aversion Therapy, Burns, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Mild Gore, Sadism, Torture, consensual sexualization of past torture, internalized kinkshaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12854463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: "In the name of completeness, I don't count my proclivities as evil or wrong. Only unfortunate, you see, given my position."





	use the shame and the scars

**Author's Note:**

> with apologies to animatedamerican for using her lyrics as title <3

When captured, the most instinctive reaction for John is to struggle and snarl, but he's long past needing to fight it. It's natural, now, to wait calmly for his captors to fuck up.

Marston does - though he doesn't realize it - by telling John, "Perhaps you need more incentive," as two of his thugs drag in Harold, tied up and pale.

John doesn't jerk; he doesn't twitch a muscle. He calculates the trajectory of Marston's death instead, inevitable as gravity.

Marston has electrodes attached to John's bare stomach and to his chest. He already demonstrated to John what happens when he pushes the little red button to his side. Marston looks at Harold and remarks, "Your friend isn't feeling chatty, but perhaps you're feeling helpful?"

"I think not," Harold says. He looks clammy. It doesn't look like he's been hit anywhere, but head trauma can be tricky; John will try to keep an eye on him.

Of course, there's not much John can do from his current position. This is demonstrated when Marston pushes the button again.

John tries to clamp down against the way his muscles seize, despite knowing it's futile. The effort and pain combined drive a grunt out of him. Embarrassing. John knows he can do better than this, especially with Harold watching, doubtless in emotional agony.

When the current stops, John opens his eyes, blinks blurriness away and looks at Harold.

There's color in Harold's cheeks now, his pupils widened. Marston says, "I hope this convinced you we're serious."

"I'm convinced," Harold answers, and John twitches. Marston and his goons must think Harold is afraid and enraged: that would account for the shake in his voice and the other signs, if one didn't know Harold as well as John did.

When Marston presses the button again, John allows himself to vocalize freely, crying out.

"Stop it," Harold says, so quiet John almost can't hear him. Then, again, louder: "Stop it!"

"Are you going to give me what I want?" Marston says, slyly.

Fortunately, at this point Shaw and Carter burst in, saving the day. John is torn between irritation and gratitude, the way he often is with Shaw. But as John sits next to Harold in a taxi back to the library, his main driving emotion is curiosity: maybe even excitement.

John has seen Harold aroused only a handful of times, each one an accident, each one hastily concealed by a highly embarrassed Harold. All of John's attempts to hit on Harold so far have been met with only armored, stony courtesy. John's fingers itch with wanting to use what he just learned about Harold, take the new intel out for a test drive.

~~

It takes six hours for John's test drive to crash and burn.

He doesn't think he did so badly. He'd followed what he'd known: that Finch gets genuinely distressed about blood, about the possibility of long-lasting harm. All John did was let a number twist John's arm behind his back, let her keep him hurting for a few minutes longer than he had to before getting out of her grip.

John comes to the library satisfied and curious, if tired and filthy from the day's work. He sneaks up on Finch, because that's both good practice and great entertainment.

This attempt at stealth is almost derailed when John sees the burn wounds on Harold's screen.

They are shiny and messy and they make John slightly uneasy. John blinks and considers that perhaps Harold's tastes are wider ranging than he thought.

Before John can work himself to being into that, too, Harold turns around in his chair. He's pale and clammy again, and John goes to his side before he can think better. "Finch? What's wrong?"

Harold swallows. "You would do me great service, Mr. Reese," he says, "if you didn't allow yourself to be hurt unnecessarily. It puts you at risk and causes me no small amount of distress." His hands clutch the chair's armrests.

John looks from Harold's face to the screen and back again. "Maybe you should close that tab," John says. "It doesn't seem good for your peace of mind."

Harold's eyes close. He takes a deep breath and visibly readies himself for... something, John has no idea what. "I'll take that under advisement." He turns around without another word.

John watches him for a few moments more. Harold reads something that's apparently about the long term ramifications of third degree burns, with illustrations. Three times Harold flinches away from the screen. The third time, John thinks he hears Harold gag. It's about all he can take; John legs it.

~~

John keeps trying to put it all together in his head, and the facts refuse to make sense.

Harold is genuinely distressed by blood and gore. John has seen proof of this multiple times. For Harold to have faked it requires duplicity Harold is certainly capable of, but strikes John as too dishonest for Harold to have knowingly engaged in it with John.

And yet, Harold not only read material he found strongly distressing for no apparent reason, he let John see him do it. Why?

~~

The next time John gets hurt isn't his fault. The number gets the drop on him, pistol-whips John and knees him in the groin while John is still slightly dazed.

When John makes it back to the library, Harold looks deeply unhappy in a way John's learned to recognize. "Reading anything good?" John says.

Harold pinches the bridge of his nose. "Recovery from long-term brain damage."

"Right." John doesn't even know why he asked.

That's a lie: he asked because, just when Forthington's knee collided with John's balls, there had been a hitch of breath in John's ear.

~~

The time after that is John's fault, fine. But it shouldn't have been any of Harold's goddamned business to begin with.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" John demands of Harold, who is pointedly reading up on infections in self-inflicted knife wounds.

"I could ask you the same thing," Harold says, voice as cutting as the situation warrants. "Are you so devoted to provoking me, or," the words lose sarcasm and pick up doubt, "were you driven to actual self-harm?"

"I was _jerking off_ ," John says through gritted teeth.

Harold gives him a wide-eyed look, halfway between skeptical and concerned. "Do you often injure yourself while pursuing gratification?"

John rolls his eyes. "Not often, no. But not never, either."

True, he'd been somewhat inspired by thoughts of perhaps taking Harold's well-hidden sadistic streak and running with it, but it was hardly the first time he'd given himself a few scratches while getting off. Harold's possible sadism wasn't why John got into Harold in the first place, but it sure as hell didn't hurt anything.

At least, it hadn't up till now.

~~

"So if I were you," John tells Avati, the number, "I would reconsider this course of action."

Avati squirms and pants, distraught. "For fuck's sake, please let me up!" His legs flail in empty air, as if he could walk down the seven stories between him and the ground if he tried hard enough.

"I don't think you're hearing me," John says.

"Mr. Reese, that's enough." Harold's voice comes in sharp and firm. "Detective Fusco is on his way and we have plenty of evidence. There's no need for this."

With regret, John obeys. On his way back to the library, he buys a box of donuts and crosses his fingers that they will distract Finch sufficiently from the rant that's probably brewing.

No such luck. Harold glances at the donuts, thanks John stiffly, then adds, "If you could tell me what exactly you were thinking, Mr. Reese, I would be much obliged."

John shrugs one shoulder. "Sometimes you just gotta dangle someone from a porch."

"Mr. Avati was the victim," Harold says, stressing the word. "I grant he wasn't blameless, but it's not like you to be violent to embezzlers." His expression softens. "Is there anything going on that I should know about?"

John lets out a breath. "I hear you," he tells Finch. "I won't do it again, okay?"

"I fear we're not quite okay yet," Harold says. He rises from his chair with difficulty. "I suspect there is an external cause for your behavior recently, and I would like to know what it is." His shoulders stiffen. "Especially if I'm the cause."

John blinks at him. Harold's right, John has had more of a hair trigger recently, but how is that Harold's fault?

Harold's mouth sets into a prim line, then he says, "I was afraid this might happen. If you have any concerns I can alleviate, please let me do so."

"Such as?" John says, mouth dry. The longer Harold keeps talking, the likelier it becomes that John will manage to piece together what's on his mind.

"I have not the least intention," Harold says, huddled into his clothes like armor, "of causing you unnecessary pain, Mr. Reese. I hope you know that."

That seems like an opening. John aims himself at it like a shark that scented blood. "What about necessary pain, Finch?"

Harold gives him a sharp, terrifyingly _present_ look. "I have gone to some lengths," he says, "to ensure that any pain befalling you - or, indeed, anyone else under my power - is only what is strictly unavoidable."

The thought clicks together in John's brain, just like that. He blurts it out, used to sharing his deductions with Harold: "Aversion therapy."

"Just so," Finch says. He stands very stiffly indeed, like he's not letting himself hunch. "Although in the name of completeness, I don't count my proclivities as evil or wrong. Only unfortunate, you see, given my position."

"Unfortunate," John echos.

Harold nods, a little too fast. "So you see," he says, "there's nothing for you to be concerned about. Everything is under control."

~~

Something niggles at John, and later, lying in bed, he considers.

Finch, a sadist: part of John can't help but be satisfied at the knowledge, purring at this unexpected compatibility between them. And yet, Harold very clearly wants nothing to do with a rougher kind of sexuality.

It's only the likelihood of Harold listening that's keeping John from saying out loud, "This sucks."

It sucks worse than not knowing Harold could be into him at all. Before John could have at least fantasized about Harold having these inclinations without images of 3rd degree burns popping in his mind at odd moments. It's been interfering with his jerking off schedule: no wonder John's been cranky.

~~

Being captured every so often is an inevitability in this line of work. It still gives John the sharp jab of failure to realize he'd fucked up, slipped up enough for the number to have gotten the drop on him.

John's hands are tied behind his back. Roter has cut the shirt off John, without being too careful where his knife went. John clenches his teeth.

Last time it had been easier. Then he'd known Harold was getting something out of this, and it was easy for John to slip into a mental state where pain was just information, inconsequential compared to Harold's attention.

Harold's probably paying attention - attention that later Harold will pay for.

It sends sudden fury streaking through John, and that, too, renders pain into something different: vengeance, little strokes of it blazing on John's skin, righteous. Somebody deserves to be hurt, and it might as well be John.

It keeps him going until Roter, in an off moment, takes his attention off John for long enough that John can pick his cuffs and rise swinging. He disarms Roter, reminds himself Harold hates it when he shoots people unnecessarily, cuffs Roter to the chair in his place and gets the fuck out.

~~

At the library, Harold is already on his feet when John comes in, and he herds John to the sofa. Disinfectant and bandages are ready at hand. Through John's wall of pain and anger, it's still endearing.

He lets Harold patch him up, and keeps his eyes shut.

Harold notices after a little while. His hands wobble; he's not doing anything critical at the moment, only dabbing disinfectant on a shallower cut. John feels the sudden raggedness of the movement. "Mr. Reese?"

"I'm okay," he says. And then, "If I look at your computer, will I regret it?"

Harold is still. Then he says, "I hoped it might-- ease your mind to know that I'm attempting not to succumb to baser urges."

"Is that what you were trying to do?" John says, with forced lightness. "Are you sure?"

Harold flinches. "I'm not sure what you're suggesting."

John breathes in deep. "It's not your fault," he says, in hope repeating the words will help him believe them. "But I think your aversion therapy is a little too effective."

"What do you mean?" Harold sounds dismayed.

"It's been affecting me," John says bluntly. "I don't care how you feel about masochism, I need it to do my job."

Finally he opens his eyes to see Harold, mouth slightly open, making no rebuttal.

"I make pain into something else," John says, "and knowing I can do that - that means I can survive anything they do to me."

Harold swallows. His eyes are very wide. "I somehow doubt this is literally true."

John smirks. "A lot closer to true than Marston would have thought," he says. He holds out his open palm. "I take what they do to me," he folds his fingers. "And I turn it into feeling good. They can't scare me. They have no idea what I am."

"Human," Harold says. "Flesh and blood."

But John is ready for him. "Don't be a buzzkill, Harold," he says mildly. "Are you saying it's bad for me to be confident in my sexuality? Or my professional skills?"

Harold is pale, but he doesn't move away. "Of course not." His voice is the steadiest thing about him. He inhales. "But if enjoying pain is necessary for you to do your job, I fear that me instating you in it may have been unethical."

There's only one way to answer that, really. John's already shirtless, so it's easy to show the old puckered mark on his inner arm. "Know how I got this, Harold?"

"You had it prior to your military service," Harold says stiffly.

John grins. "A+ for you. It's from when I was in 12th grade. A car cigarette lighter."

Harold blinks. John holds his gaze, daring Harold to look away from him to whatever horror is on Harold's computer. Harold doesn't.

"I did it to myself because I wanted to," John says. "I wanted the scar, and I wanted to know how it would feel."

Harold opens his mouth, and at first no sound comes out. Then he says, "How did it feel?"

"It felt like fire," John says simply. "It was what I wanted." 

He captures Harold's shaking hand. "It's done," he tells Harold gently. "It's already healed. I'm here, safe as can be."

"It could have been so much worse," Harold whispers.

"But it wasn't." John squeezes Harold's hand. "Don't take over my narrative, Harold, the therapy books you gave me all frown on that."

After a long while, Harold squeezes back, and says, "Perhaps you should relay to me more of that narrative of yours."

~~

He tells Harold stories: like naming constellations with scars instead of stars.

"This one," Harold says, tracing a faint line of John's calf.

"Barbed wire. We had to burrow under a fence to get out." The memory comes to John as he speaks, more vivid than it'd been when it actually happened: then John was distracted with the need to get away. Now, there's only the recollection of that one agonizing line down his leg, and Harold's eyes gone dark with desire.

After, Harold traces the scar again. He's very gentle, same as before.

"Plenty more where that came from," John says, a little giddy with his recent orgasm. He regrets the words as soon as they come out, expecting Harold to flinch.

Instead, Harold looks thoughtful. "That's true enough," he says, rueful, looking at John's body with sheepish appreciation. John preens. "How doesn't it bother you?"

After a moment of confusion, John says, "That you get off on my injuries?" Harold nods. "In case you missed it, _I_ get off on my injuries. Why would I mind company?"

"But aren't you afraid," Harold presses, "that I'll become-- careless with your wellbeing?"

John chuckles. "Harold. You gave yourself aversion therapy so you wouldn't accidentally hurt a stranger. You're a lot of things; careless isn't really one of them."

He knows Harold doesn't quite believe him, but that's okay: so long as Harold isn't running off to do penance at his computer. In fact, Harold is making himself comfortable in the bed, petting John with both hands.

"We don't have to do anything," John says. "It can just be-- stories. Things that are over and done with, so you know nothing bad happened in the end." But there's an excited feeling curled up in his belly, that John can't deny. Doesn't want to.

"Hm," Harold says. "I'll bear that in mind."

That's more than John hoped for. John grins and snuggles Harold as thoroughly as he dares.


End file.
